


A Grindr Love Story

by Vamillepudding



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Asexual Enjolras, Getting Together, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Misunderstandings, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:34:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29355771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vamillepudding/pseuds/Vamillepudding
Summary: When Enjolras finds Grantaire breaking into his flat, he assumes Grantaire is a. a felon, b. an addict and c. homeless. It's not until Enjolras accidentally hits him with a car that he realises that none of this is true.Also, there's a dog.
Relationships: Combeferre & Courfeyrac & Enjolras (Les Misérables), Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 104





	A Grindr Love Story

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [cynassa](https://www.archiveofourown.org/users/cynassa) for bearing with me and my latest obsession! 
> 
> I was told not to name this "the homeless story" like it was titled in my word doc, which was probably a good call.

1

It’s a quarter to midnight when there’s a crash coming from Enjolras’ front door. Enjolras frowns and continues to type, right until there is another crash, and then one more.

Enjolras abruptly remembers that Combeferre is visiting his parents, and is thus unable to go check out the noise. He feels a distant sort of betrayal, like he did yesterday when he opened the fridge and realised no one had gone grocery shopping, or the day before, when he walked into the kitchen after three hours of sleep and did not find the coffee machine already running.

The crash sounds for the fourth time. It’s not a knock, more like someone is slamming their body repeatedly against the door full-force, trying to break in.

Enjolras frowns harder. _Is_ someone trying to break in?

He finishes his email, clicks send, closes his laptop, and goes to open the door. When he does, it’s right on time for a strange man to throw himself against it once more. Without the door in place, he throws himself against Enjolras instead. They both fall to the ground in a tumble of limbs, and Enjolras’ head hits a sharp edge that’s possibly the dresser or possibly the art project that Courfeyrac brought home two weeks ago.

The maybe-intruder lets out a litany of curses. From the way he’s slurring his words, Enjolras deduces that he must be drunk.

“Shit, sorry, shit, are you okay oh my god are you _bleeding_?”

Enjolras ignores him and instead attempts to get up. This proves to be more difficult to be expected, mostly because the intruder is still lying on top of him. Eventually, Enjolras succeeds in throwing him off, and it’s only now that he realises that he is, in fact, bleeding.

The intruder scrambles to his feet as well now. He’s pale and a little sweaty and his eyes are bloodshot. It’s possible, Enjolras thinks, that this man isn’t intoxicated. Perhaps he’s going through withdrawal.

“Okay no but seriously, head wounds are no joke,” says the drug addict. He takes a step closer. Enjolras doesn’t step back, but something must show in his face, because the addict lifts his hands like he wants to show that he isn’t a threat. “Relax, I just wanted to check- is that a _spike_?”

Enjolras doesn’t need to follow his gaze to know what the man has spotted in the hallway. “It’s several spikes,” he says.

The addict stares at him.

“It’s an art project,” Enjolras explains, irritated.

The addict keeps staring.

Enjolras, annoyed because it’s surely midnight by now, which means he only has another four hours of work before his body will eventually succumb to sleep, and because his head hurts and he feels something drip down his neck and trickle down his spine and it could be sweat but it’s probably blood, decides that he is done with this, whatever it is.

“I’m shutting the door now,” he says.

“Um,” the addict says.

Enjolras, thinking about Combeferre returning and hearing about how his roommate turned down a person in need, pats down his pockets in the hopes of finding some money. The only thing he drags up is a crumpled flyer, which won’t do. “Wait here,” he says, and goes to the kitchen. Two minutes later, he returns, now carrying their microwave, which he deposits in the man’s arms. On top of it, he also adds the flyer.

“I think I’m hallucinating,” the man says conversationally. He sounds quite cheerful about it.

“You should be able to sell that somewhere,” says Enjolras, assuming that this is probably true. “Take the money and find some help.”

“I think you’re-“

Enjolras shuts the door.

By the time he’s back at work, and the whole apartment is blissfully quiet once more, he has already forgotten about this strange encounter.

2

“I cannot believe you didn’t go shopping even once,” Combeferre says, when he’s back home. “I was gone for two weeks!”

Enjolras stays silent. They’re sitting on the couch, with Courfeyrac lying on the carpet for some reason, and it’s Courfeyrac who answers instead. “It’s fine, he had breakfast with us every day. Well. With me. I’m not totally sure he even registered Marius’ presence.”

“Who?” Enjolras asks absently. He’s not really listening, too busy refreshing his emails every two seconds. So far, no one has replied.

Combeferre, who returned half an hour ago with three suitcases, gently moves Enjolras’ feet from his lap so that he can reach suitcase no. 1. For a few seconds, there is the sound of him rummaging through clothes and textbooks and hair products, before he throws something in Enjolras’ general direction. Enjolras, who caught it on instinct, frowns down at it. “That’s an orange.”

“My mother says none of us eat enough fruit,” Combeferre says, and hands Courfeyrac a slightly squished banana. “You’re also invited for Christmas.”

For reasons that Enjolras never understood, Combeferre’s parents like him. They also like Courfeyrac, but then again, Courfeyrac has never thrown a brick through their window at the age of 16 in order to make a statement on capitalism. That was ten years ago, and they still send Enjolras birthday presents every year. It’s sweet and mortifying at equal amounts.

After distributing four more oranges and two apples among them, Combeferre goes to put his bags away. Suddenly, he calls out, “Is that blood in the hallway?!”

Enjolras pretends he hasn’t heard. By now, he has received two new emails, although neither of them is about work. One is from Bahorel, who has attached a cat video that Enjolras watches twice. The other is from Combeferre’s mother, who asks if he likes casserole and if she should bring some over. Combeferre’s parents live three hours away.

Combeferre reappears in the living room sans suitcases. He has somehow managed to use his three minutes-long absence to prepare a grocery list. “I’m going to the store,” he says. “Is anyone coming?”

“Only if we buy pudding,” says Courfeyrac, despite not actually living here. “And fishfingers. Also, let’s go get pizza on the way back.”

Enjolras refreshes his emails again. Nothing. Presumably, he thinks, the revolution can wait for the time it takes him to buy a green smoothie. “Let’s go,” he says, and offers Combeferre and Courfeyrac the last two orange slices.

There are two stores right around the corner, but they usually go to the organic supermarket twenty minutes away. Until about two months ago they went by bicycle, but then Combeferre’s bicycle got stolen and he hasn’t replaced it yet. Enjolras is prepared to walk, except that when they leave the house, Courfeyrac claims that his feet hurt and he cannot possibly walk even a metre longer.

“Let’s just share a bike,” he says. “Combeferre can ride on my handlebars. It will be fun!”

Combeferre audibly swallows. He attempts to meet Enjolras’ gaze, presumably to look for support. Enjolras looks blankly back. “I think,” Combeferre says slowly after realising that he’s on his own, “that it might be safer if I rode with Enjolras.”

“What.”

“There have been,” Combeferre says, “some, you know. Accidents.”

“What.”

“Several accidents, in fact.”

“This is outrageous,” Courfeyrac says, clutching a heart to his chest like Combeferre has stabbed him. “How dare you!”

“In short,” Combeferre continues, “your bicycle does not feel like a safe space to me. If I have to ride with anyone, it’s Enjolras.”

Which is how Enjolras ends up manoeuvring his bike through the busy streets of Paris with Combeferre riding on the handlebars and Courfeyrac in front of them, giving off the impression of sulking even while he has his back turned. The entire scene reminds Enjolras of school, before they moved to Paris to study, before they met Courfeyrac and the others, back when it was just Combeferre and him and one bike between the two of them, since Enjolras’ parents refused to buy him one. (He did have a pony, though.)

They arrive at the Whole Foods unscathed, a small miracle in itself. Combeferre locks up the bikes and Courfeyrac wanders off in search of a cart, and Enjolras startles as he realises that, sitting in front of the supermarket and smoking, is someone he knows.

He's walking over before he has time to think about it. His intruder looks different during the day, though he still seems exhausted. Seeing Enjolras approaching, he looks up warily. Enjolras sees the exact moment the would be-intruder recognises him: his eyes widen for just the fraction of a second, and then he grins up at him. “Come to get your microwave back?” he asks.

“No.” This time, Enjolras is lucky. He finds some spare change in his pocket, and drops it in the man’s coffee cup.

A beat.

They both glance down at where the coffee has spilled over the edge a little, after having several coins dumped into it.

“I’m still drinking that,” the man says at last.

Enjolras doesn’t get a chance to reply. Combeferre, either finished with the lock or giving up, has materialised next to him. He knocks their shoulders together, looking first at Enjolras, then at the intruder, then back at Enjolras. “Problem?” he asks.

Just then, Courfeyrac shows up on Enjolras’ other side, cart abandoned, so that they’re both flanking him. “Problem?” he asks.

The intruder stands up. His coffee, Enjolras notes, is still on the ground; he hasn’t picked it up. “So, I’m getting kind of a weird vibe here? So I’m just gonna, you know. Go somewhere else. Cheers, guys.” He tips his non-existent cap and leaves them still standing there, although he turns around after only a few seconds. “Hope you got that head wound checked out, by the way,” he says. Then he really does leave.

“Who was that?” Courfeyrac asks at the same time as Combeferre asks, “What head wound?”

Enjolras starts heading towards the store, not bothering to check if they’re following. He knows they are. “Every citizen’s sacred duty,” he says firmly, “is helping out their fellow man.”

“But why were you-“

Enjolras turns sharply left, right at the cereal aisle, which predictably starts off the first of many grocery debates. This distraction, he figures, is as good as any.

3

After they help Bossuet move into his new apartment, they draw straws on who has to return the moving van to the old man they borrowed it from. When Enjolras draws the short straw, it is unanimously decided that they will try again. When Enjolras draws the short straw a second time, there is a brief, uncomfortable silence, wherein everyone shares looks and Enjolras feels his irritation rising.

“What,” he snaps. “I can drive.”

“That is true,” Courfeyrac agrees. “You’ve had your licence back for over two months now.”

“It’s just that we _feel_ ,” Combeferre says slowly, “that your talents are better applied elsewhere.”

A young man whom Enjolras has never seen before gives him a sympathetic smile that Enjolras doesn’t return. “Don’t worry about it,” he says. “I’m a terrible driver, too.”

“Have we met?” Enjolras asks.

The man’s face falls. “I helped you carry up that armchair earlier! I made you pancakes last week! I-“

Enjolras, whose interest in the conversation is rapidly declining, takes the keys before anyone can protest. “I’m returning this van,” he announces.

Courfeyrac makes the sign of the cross and looks skywards as though in prayer. He is not, to Enjolras’ knowledge, catholic.

Navigating a car through the Parisian traffic is infinitely worse than doing it on a bicycle, but Enjolras has never backed down from a challenge. So far, he has only run over one red light, and that one really wasn’t his fault.

It really seems like it’s all going well.

Then he takes a turn and, entirely out of nowhere, a man steps right in front of the van.

Enjolras doesn’t even have time to curse. He hits the brakes, but it’s too late.

They collide.

Enjolras is out of the driver’s cabin immediately, the motor still running, and drops to his knees next to the man he just hit with his car. Enjolras hopes he isn’t dead. Or if he is dead, Enjolras hopes that he was a member of congress.

There doesn’t seem to be any blood, which would be a good sign, except that the man is also not getting up. Enjolras slaps him twice, to no effect, and then remembers to check his pulse. Slow, but steady.

“Can you hear me?”

No response.

“I’m taking you to a hospital,” Enjolras announces. At this, the man’s eyes snap open, which is when Enjolras figures out why he seemed familiar.

This is the homeless drug addict who tried to break into his apartment a few weeks ago.

“No hospital,” the man says. He’s slurring his words, but in his defence, he might not be intoxicated, he might just have a concussion. Enjolras is willing to give him the benefit of the doubt this time. “Don’t, no hospital, okay?”

For perhaps the first time in his life, Enjolras is torn. It’s a strange sensation, not immediately knowing the right thing to do. On the one hand, this man was just in a car accident and clearly needs medical attention. On the other hand, free will is man’s right by nature. Besides, who knows if there is a reason he wants to avoid the hospital? Life on the street is a hardship, and this man has already shown that he is desperate enough to try and rob people. It stands to reason that this would happen more than once.

And just like that, the world is righted again, because Enjolras has formed a plan.

The man has fainted again, but that’s okay. Enjolras is strong.

He lifts the man into his arms and carries him to the van. Two minutes later, they’re back on the road.

4

Over the years, a number of people have brought all kinds of things to Enjolras’ and Combeferre’s apartment. There was the Great Watermelon Feast of ’17. There was a stolen statue, a stolen bicycle, and a stolen gun. There has been, only recently, the art project with the spikes.

There has never been a person before.

It has to be said to Combeferre’s credit that he looks only mildly alarmed when Enjolras dumps a random stranger on their couch. “Are we about to get sued?” he asks.

“Maybe,” says Enjolras, not in the habit of lying. “But probably not,” he adds. Then he pauses: just now, he was thinking about how homeless people can’t exactly afford lawyers. But that seems hardly fair. His mind made up, Enjolras says, “If he wants to sue, I will ask Courfeyrac to take the case.”

“Case against whom?” asks Courfeyrac. He is, for no reason that Enjolras can discern, sitting cross-legged on their kitchen table. He supposes that if the table breaks, it wouldn’t be a big loss, seeing as ‘table’ stands for ‘boxes stacked on top of each other’ and Courfeyrac was actually the one who built it in the first place.

“Me.”

Courfeyrac nods, tapping a finger against his mouth. “Cool, cool, no problem. I always knew this day would come. To be honest, I kind of expected to be _your_ lawyer but, that’s fine, I go both ways.” He pauses. No one laughs. Combeferre, his face flushed, is busy inspecting his new patient, and Enjolras presses his lips together and pretends not to hear.

“I have the worst audience,” Courfeyrac says morosely.

Combeferre has procured a torchlight from somewhere and is now shining it in the man’s eyes. The man blinks drowsily, trying to turn his head, and when Combeferre asks for his name, he doesn’t reply immediately.

“Your name?” Combeferre repeats. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Grantaire,” the man says eventually. He sounds dazed.

They go through a few more questions, most of which take a while to answer, some of which – “what date is today” – don’t get an answer at all. Finally, Combeferre turns back to Enjolras, looking grim. “Concussion,” he says. “What did you _do_ to him?”

“He stepped in front of my car,” Enjolras says testily. “Will he be okay?”

Combeferre shrugs. “He will need to be monitored for the few hours or so, but other than that, he should be fine.”

While they were talking, Courfeyrac has jumped down from the table and is currently in the process of waving his hand in front of Grantaire’s face. “Hey,” he says. “Hey, you! Are you planning to sue Enjolras?”

Grantaire clumsily tries to bat Courfeyrac’s hands away, with limited success. “Who?”

“He has to stay,” Enjolras says to Combeferre. “He lives on the street. We can’t send him back while he’s concussed. Have you seen the state of shelters in this country? The hygiene conditions alone are-“

“Give him five minutes, and he’ll have you recruited to give a speech at the next rally,” Courfeyrac tells Grantaire. “Oh, hey, is he supposed to be asleep? Look, he’s not reacting, even when I do _this_ -”

“Stop assaulting the patient,” Combeferre says warily, and shoves Courfeyrac aside so that he can examine Grantaire once again. Enjolras can’t help but think that it’s a good thing Combeferre hasn’t finished med school yet, because clearly, Grantaire’s condition isn’t improving.

The problem with Enjolras and Combeferre’s apartment is that, technically, there is barely enough space for two people, let alone three. There is one bedroom plus the kitchen and the living room, and there is also a tiny closet, and that’s pretty much it. It’s decided that Grantaire will stay on the couch, where they throw a blanket over him and try to force-feed him painkillers until Enjolras intervenes.

“Don’t,” he says, “you’re enabling his addiction.”

Combeferre stops trying to hold open Grantaire’s mouth and turns to look at him. “I’m sorry,” he says, in his low, melodic voice, “how do you know this man again?”

“We’ve met before,” Enjolras says curtly, and ends the conversation by leaving the room.

He spends the next few hours holed up in the bedroom, writing emails and shouting at people over the phone, entirely emerged in his tasks until there is a knock and Courfeyrac pokes his head inside the room. “I’m supposed to tell you that dinner is ready, and that Grantaire is awake.” 

“I’m busy.” Enjolras looks up once it becomes obvious that Courfeyrac isn’t just going to leave. “What?”

“Grantaire is awake,” Courfeyrac repeats. “The guy you hit with your car? Ringing any bells?”

“Give him some food and tell him he’s welcome to stay the night.”

“Tell him yourself.”

“I’m _busy_ ,” Enjolras says again. Courfeyrac huffs, but he also closes the door. Enjolras puts on headphones to drown out the noise of voices and laughter, and goes back to work.

Midnight has come and gone by the time that Enjolras makes his way into the kitchen. There’s a covered plate on the counter and a note taped to the fridge, written in Combeferre’s blocky letters.

GONE TO C, BACK TOMORROW  
EAT DINNER  
SLEEP

Enjolras scowls and tries to remove the note, only to realise that he can’t. They must have used superglue, which means that a. the note stays, and b. his fingers are now very sticky. He turns on the tab and attempts to get the glue off, and then, all of a sudden, someone right behind him says, “Do your friends always leave you instructions for basic human necessities?”

At first, Enjolras had tensed, but he relaxes once he recognises the voice. “You’re still here,” he says.

“And you guys are all pretty shit at taking care of people.” Grantaire jumps up on the counter, which means that now Enjolras has to clean it again. “I’m not saying I’ve never woken up in a strange place before, but usually, I was allowed to leave. Well, except the time with the handcuffs.”

Enjolras continues scrubbing his fingers and tries not to be judgemental. He fails.

Maybe Grantaire sees something in his face, because he laughs, shaking his head. “Not whatever you’re thinking. I got arrested.”

This, finally, gets Enjolras’ attention. He cannot quite bring himself to ask. Grantaire answers anyway, and when he does, he’s laughing again. “Public indecency.”

“You-“

“Got really drunk and pissed against a wall.”

“That should get you fined, not arrested.”

“Not when the wall in question belongs to a police station.”

Enjolras surprises himself by laughing. Unlike Grantaire, whose laugh sounds like he’s mocking himself and the world alike and is inviting you to be in on the joke, Enjolras’ laugh has always seemed somewhat stilted to his own ears. Maybe that’s why

Grantaire goes quiet for a few seconds, his eyes an uncomfortable weight on the back of Enjolras’ head.

“Can I have some painkillers?” he asks eventually. “My head hurts like I got hit by a car. Which I did.”

“No painkillers.”

“Are you serious? Why not? Your friends wouldn’t let me have any either, right before they told me to sleep on the couch and locked the door when they went out. Let me tell you something right now – you can take away my freedom, but you can’t take away my narcotics.”

“No narcotics,” Enjolras says, and turns off the tap water. He moves to walk past Grantaire and back to his room, and is surprised when he’s stopped by a hand to his chest. He frowns at it until Grantaire drops it.

“Am I to assume that celestial beings require no nutrition, then?”

“What?”

“Food,” Grantaire says, rather nonsensically. The mystery clears up as he points at the plate Combeferre prepared. “Your tall friend said something about groceries and eating habits? I was pretty out of it for that part, but- hey, wow, that looks way better than the dinner I got.” Grantaire has uncovered the plate, revealing a vegetable curry. He lets out a low whistle. “We just had pasta with some weird sauce. I vomited most of it back up, but that’s probably the concussion. How come you get special treatment?”

“I don’t like pasta,” Enjolras says.

“So you get an _entirely new dish_?”

Enjolras doesn’t reply. Even after all these weeks, he still turns to the microwave automatically, plate in hand, and finds nothing but empty space. They’ve talked about getting a replacement, and Courfeyrac, with an utterly undue confidence, has claimed many times that he’d probably be able to build one. So far, he hasn’t.

Enjolras sets the dish back on the counter and, hesitating only a second, asks, “Would you like some of this?”

“You’re not eating it?”

“I don’t like food that’s cold.”

“So just heat it u- oh, right.” Something like bitter amusement flits across Grantaire’s features, there and gone again just as quickly. “You can’t, because you gave your microwave to me.”

The kitchen is filled with silence for a few moments, nothing but the sound of their breathing and, from somewhere in the apartment building, his neighbours getting into another screaming match. Then, Grantaire claps his hands together decisively. “Alright then, let’s go.”

Enjolras waits.

Eventually, Grantaire huffs. “You’re clearly hungry, and I could go for some food that doesn’t make me puke. So I’m taking you out for dinner.”

Enjolras considers this. He will pay, of course, and besides, sharing a meal is always an excellent way to lure someone into caring about the cause or, in this case, their destructive lifestyle. And also the cause.

His nod makes Grantaire smile. They both put on shoes and coats and then, remembering in the last second that apparently, his friends locked the door, Enjolras walks towards the bedroom instead.

“Um,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras, in a long-practiced movement, hits the window frame two times, one on the left side, one on the right. The window opens, and he holds it open.

“Um,” Grantaire says again.

“I lost my keys last week,” Enjolras explains. Lost is another way of saying that he used them to scratch a bit of friendly advice into a senator’s car, and dropped the keys when he had to make a run for it. “We’re only two storeys up. It’s best to climb down the drainpipe.”

“I think I’ve changed my mind about dinner.”

Enjolras, who has always believed that actions are better than words, and who is also a big supporter of leading by example, climbs out the window. Once he’s found support on both the wall and the ivy, he's able to reach the pipe, and from then on, it’s just a simply matter of making a controlled climb downwards. All in all, less than a minute has passed before he’s reached the ground.

He looks up, and finds that Grantaire has made no move to follow him.

“Well?” he calls up irritably. “Are you coming?”

Grantaire says, “Fortes fortuna adiuvat,“ and starts climbing.

5

The restaurant they end up at is not, as Enjolras had been both expecting and trying to mentally prepare himself for, a McDonalds.

“This is a vegan restaurant,” Grantaire explains faux-casually like Enjolras is incapable of reading, and glances at him from the side. He keeps doing that – just _looking_ at Enjolras, over and over again, all throughout their walk and even now that they’re seated at a table by the window. Enjolras is used to people staring at him, but he’s not used to the way Grantaire’s persistent looks make him feel, random flashes of hot up his neck and face that are not entirely dissimilar to running a fever.

Enjolras skims the menu and says, “Order anything you like” in what is intended to be friendly reassurance and instead comes out as standoffish.

“I think I’ll have the quinoa salad,” Grantaire says, except that he pronounces it as keen-wah. A muscle in his jaw ticking, Enjolras tells himself that snapping at the less fortunate is not fair to anyone.

“With extra jalapeños,” Grantaire adds. He doesn’t say ‘jalapeños’, though.

Enjolras attempts a supportive smile.

“And maybe I’ll have a chai tea, too,” Grantaire muses, and that’s it, that’s the last straw.

“It is _not_ ,” Enjolras snaps, “called ‘chai tea’, it’s _just chai_ , and if you took even a _single_ second out of your day to look beyond your own comfortable little bubble, you would know just how ignorant and- why are you laughing?”

Grantaire is, in fact, laughing so loudly that other patrons are looking their way. The waitress, who was just about to take their order, withdraws. “Your face,” Grantaire manages to get out, once he’s calmed down a little, “you should have seen your face”, and then he’s off again.

Enjolras, whose tolerance for both being the subject of mockery, and also for people in general, isn’t high on the best of days, waits for another 10 seconds before he waves over the waitress again and orders tea and a platter of sandwiches for them to share. When the waitress returns shortly afterwards with their drinks, Grantaire has pulled himself together enough to be able to witness the waitress handing Enjolras a small note with a series of numbers written on it. “Call me,” she says.

“Of _course_ we’re here less than five minutes and you’ve already gotten someone’s phone number,” Grantaire says once she’s out of earshot. “You probably- hey, what are you doing?”

Enjolras, in the process of ripping up the note without a thought, frowns. “What? I have no intention of calling her. Despite what society may think, there is no debt owed to people who-”

“It’s cool if you’re not interested,” Grantaire interrupts, “but you don’t have to be a dick about it. How would you feel if you- actually, you know what, forget it. Face like yours, I’ll bet you a million euros that you’ve never been rejected.”

“You don’t have a million euros.”

“Am I right, though?” Grantaire asks, his expression turning smug when Enjolras glances away. “I thought so. You’re an asshole, and also you owe me money now.”

Enjolras’ hands are wrapped tightly around his steaming mug, barely noticing the burn. “It’s not my face,” he blurts out, cringing at the awkward phrasing. Somehow, though, it’s important that he make this clear. “I don’t expect people to- I don’t _ask_ them.”

Grantaire nods, like this makes sense to him. “You never had to, I guess. Wherever you go, people probably just flock to you like moths. Your golden hair must be like a beacon to them. You’re like that girl from Tangled.”

“No,” Enjolras says. He’s growing increasingly frustrated. “You’re not listening. I’ve never – just, never, alright?”

It takes Grantaire a few seconds to understand. Then, realisation dawns on his face. “ _Oh_ ,” he says. “Well. Now _I_ feel like a dick. Should we have wine for this conversation? Let’s have wine.” He attempts to wave at the waitress; Enjolras catches his wrist.

“No wine.”

“Okay,” Grantaire says, drawing out what should be a simple two-syllable word into something longer and quite unrecognisable. “I wasn’t going to bring this up, since it didn’t seem very polite, but I guess since we’re confessing things anyway, this is the time. I hope you’re prepared, because here it goes: I’m not actually an addict.”

Enjolras stares at him, uncomprehending.

“Or, like, a homeless person? Which I think you thought I was as well? I have an apartment. It’s cool, though, don’t worry about it. People sort of assume I’m homeless a lot. When I take the metro, the other passengers tend to give me quite a lot of cash. Or, you know, sometimes they throw cups at me, but it’s like I always say: for five bucks a day, you can throw as much trash at me as you like. So, there you have it. I don’t sleep under any bridges, well, I _hardly ever_ sleep under any bridges, and I’ve only done coke like, one time, and it freaked me out, so now I just stick to heroin. Just kidding, obviously.”

“But,” Enjolras says, “you tried to break into my apartment.”

Grantaire grimaces.

“Okay, so in my defence, my friend lives just down the hall from you, and I was pretty drunk. Just got the doors confused, that’s all.”

Enjolras contemplates this information. Finally, while across the table, Grantaire is busy ripping his napkin into a hundred tiny pieces, Enjolras says, “I want my microwave back.”

For just split second, Grantaire appears to be honestly caught off-guard. Then, his eyes twinkling, he says, “We’ll deduct it from that million-euro debt you owe me, how about that?”

6

After Combeferre’s parents spent the weekend visiting Paris, the fridge is now filled to bursting with pre-cooked meals. Most of them are “for Combeferre and his little friends to enjoy”. Some of them have little blue post-its on them that say ENJOLRAS with a smiley face drawn on the O.

Enjolras, for his part, has spent the weekend holed up at Courfeyrac’s place, in order to avoid aforementioned parental visit. Courfeyrac is always happy about having people over, but this time, he already had a housemate: Marius, who’s been sleeping on his couch for almost a year now and whose name Enjolras remembers at last.

“Couch or bed, Enjolras?” Courfeyrac had asked.

“Wait,” Marius said, “the couch is only big enough for one person. If Enjolras sleeps on the couch, then where am I supposed to- that seems _incredibly_ unfair,” he added, when Courfeyrac pointed at the floor.

In the end, Marius needn’t have worried, because Enjolras picked the bed. Courfeyrac’s bed isn’t technically meant for two people, but once someone got arrested for punching somebody for you, physical boundaries seem like nothing but a social construct, anyway.

Now, on Sunday evening, Enjolras is back in his own apartment, Courfeyrac is here because Courfeyrac is always here, and Marius is here because apparently his girlfriend didn’t send a heart emoji with her last message and he’s having a crisis over it.

“I’m just saying,” Marius says morosely, “we had this unspoken agreement, you know? Now what am I supposed to think? Maybe there’s a hidden message that-“

While Marius is monologuing, Courfeyrac is scrolling through Grindr. Enjolras knows this because so far, he has commented on every guy’s profile. “15 inches? It’s like they’re not even trying to be believable anymore,” he complains. “Oh look, he actually attached a dick pic, and yeah, there’s just no way that that’s-“

Enjolras should technically do some work, but he’s perched on the couch between Courfeyrac and Combeferre, which used to be their way to get him to sleep, back in his occasional insomnia phases. Clearly, he’s been conditioned like a dog, because now every time they sit like this, his eyes fall shut automatically.

He’s still drifting in and out of sleep when suddenly, Courfeyrac says, “Oh my _god_.”

Enjolras recognises this tone. It doesn’t bode well.

“Oh my god,” Courfeyrac repeats, sounding awed. “Isn’t that the guy? Enjolras, isn’t that your guy?”

“I don’t have a guy,” Enjolras says stiffly. When he opens his eyes, it’s to find that there is currently a phone screen directly in front of his face. He squints at it, and – “That’s Grantaire,” he says, surprised.

It is, indeed, Grantaire, or at least an unflattering selfie of him. His description reads, _R, 29, chugs dick like it’s beer_.

“He’s got some more pictures, too,” Courfeyrac says helpfully, and scrolls down. The next photo has Grantaire posing in a bathroom while shirtless. His caption says, _six-pack no 1 :DD_ .

“Why number one?” Combeferre asks, leaning over Enjolras’ shoulder to look at the profile more closely.

“Oh,” Courfeyrac says, “that’s because of this video he- ah, there we go.” The third and last bit of Grantaire’s profile is a short videoclip, titled, _Watch me down a sixer in under 2 minutes_.

The video does what it promises. It is 103 seconds of Grantaire systematically drinking six beers and not vomiting afterwards.

“Look at the technique,” Courfeyrac is saying, “look at the speed. I bet he’d just swallow me down like it’s nothing. Should I swipe right? Enjolras, do you mind?”

“Do what you please,” Enjolras says testily. “I don’t have time for this.” He stands up, ignoring the worried look Combeferre sends his way, and almost trips over Marius on his way out the door.

7

With exam time approaching, everyone Enjolras knows is either studying in the library, studying at home, or in a bar drinking their sorrows away. Once, three years ago, he made the mistake of organising a protest this time a year, and was told afterwards that he really should have expected that no one would show up.

Bahorel, long-term Law student and long-term pub frequenter alike, is the only other person not worrying about exams, and, like every year, he’s made it his mission to drag Enjolras to a different bar every night.

“Just think of it as your vacation,” he says, clinking his glass companionably against Enjolras’. “No need to be so tense all the time! Look at me – I pretend I’m on vacation every day, and you’ll have trouble finding anyone with fewer troubles.”

Enjolras sips his cherry juice. The noise in the Corinthe is deafening, but not the good kind. People are shouting at each other over the music, talking about their lives, their pets, their studies or their jobs, and none of it is relevant, none of it _matters_. Some sort of pop song is playing through the speakers, and Enjolras thinks that if this was June instead of May, if exam season was over and people would stop focusing on themselves for only a second, all these conversations could be rallying cries instead.

They stay in the bar for a couple more hours, with Bahorel getting more affectionate the more he drinks. It’s sort of nice, as long as Enjolras tries not to think about everything he could be doing instead. Eventually, though, he has reached his limit of social outings for the day, and so he helps Bahorel into a cab and starts his walk home.

His apartment is maybe half an hour away by foot. Enjolras has only been walking for five minutes when he walks past a dark alley and sees someone trying to pick the lock of a bicycle.

Enjolras stops. “It’s pointless crimes like this that do nothing but further the capitalist agenda,” he says.

The responding laugh sounds familiar. “It’s not a crime,” Grantaire says, turning around to fully face him under the dim street lights.

“This sort of false liberalism is-“

“No, I mean, it’s literally not a crime, because it’s my bike.” Grantaire smiles ruefully. “I lost the key, and I really need it to get to work, so I’m trying to pick the lock, but it turns out that that’s way harder than it looked on Youtube. I guess I’ll just have to call the locksmith in the morning.”

Enjolras says, “Wait here”, and walks back in the direction of the Corinthe. He returns 10 minutes later with a pair of bolt cutters, and finds Grantaire still standing where he left him.

“So, what, you just had those lying around somewhere?” Grantaire asks, as Enjolras swiftly cuts through the lock which, now in two pieces, falls to the ground. “Do you keep a secret weapon stash in every arrondissement?”

“You’re welcome,” Enjolras replies calmly. “Have a good night.”

“Wait,” Grantaire says, and falls into step next to him, pushing the bicycle with one hand. “I’ll walk you home.”

“Why?” Enjolras asks doubtfully, and Grantaire shrugs.

“Just in case, you know, something happens. I’ll be there.”

“Fifteen minutes ago, you had trouble unlocking your bike,” Enjolras points out. “What could you possibly help me with?” He realises as soon as he says it that it sounds harsher than intended, but it’s too late to take it back – and even if it wasn’t, Enjolras wouldn’t know how.

Grantaire flinches. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s – yeah.”

“I didn’t-“

“No, you’re right. I’ll just-“

Enjolras, in the certain knowledge that Grantaire is about two seconds away from disappearing and never coming back, says the first thing he can think of that will make him stay. “My friend Courfeyrac thinks you’re hot.”

There’s a pause. Grantaire looks considering. “Which one is Courfeyrac? The tall one or the curly one?”

“Curly one.” Enjolras hesitates, unsure how to phrase his next question. He’s given hundreds of speeches in front of thousands of people, but somehow, he’s tongue-tied when it comes to this. “I assumed that – he led me to believe that he already, well.”

“Well?”

Enjolras clears his throat. “Contacted you on certain platforms.”

There’s a crash; Enjolras looks over and sees that Grantaire has just crashed his bike against a street light. “You found my Grindr profile?”

“Technically, Courfeyrac did.”

“Did he show it to you?” Grantaire asks, and when Enjolras doesn’t reply, he colours. Together, they wordlessly lift up Grantaire’s bike from the ground, and for a while, they walk in silence. “You shouldn’t take it seriously,” Grantaire says at last. He still looks embarrassed, and has trouble meeting Enjolras’ eyes. “All that shit I have on there is just for laugh, mostly. I don’t actually chug d– I mean, I do, sometimes, but that’s not like, my defining quality. Nor is that whole six-pack thing, that’s just a party trick.”

“What is your defining quality, then?” Enjolras asks, curious despite himself.

At first, it seems like he’s said the wrong thing again, because Grantaire doesn’t reply immediately. Then, though, he shakes his head, seems like he’s about to clap Enjolras on the shoulder but changes his mind at the last moment, and says, “I guess I also look really good without a shirt.”

They’re almost at Enjolras’ apartment building now, and when they arrive, Enjolras finds that he has no idea what to say. He hasn’t seen Grantaire since their midnight dinner and, apparently, Grantaire hasn’t been in touch with Courfeyrac after all.

In the end, it’s Grantaire who speaks first. “Listen,” he says, licking his lips nervously, “if you ever feel like it, you can totally hit me up.”

“I don’t have Grindr,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire coughs loudly.

“No – _god_ no. Please, don’t ever get Grindr, that’s just – no, I meant, we don’t have to wait for you to hit me with your car again. I can give you my number, you call me if you feel like it, and we can hang out. Simple as that.”

Simple, Enjolras thinks. His brain feels like it’s lagging behind a bit, which isn’t a very pleasant sensation.

He must have been silent for too long, because Grantaire now holds up his hands like he’s ready to surrender. “Actually, I’m probably way out of line, and I’ve just remembered what you do with numbers people give you, and I would really like you to not start avoiding me, so. Forget it. We’ll keep it as anonymous as a gloryhole. If Lady Fortuna shines on us, we’ll meet again, and maybe this time, you won’t even assume I’m someone unseemly. We will-“

“Give me your phone,” Enjolras interrupts.

Grantaire stops mid-speech, looking shocked. “What? Why?”

“I’m going to give you my number,” Enjolras says, “as long as you never use the word gloryhole in my presence again.”

“Gloryhole,” Grantaire says immediately, and winces. “Sorry. My father always says that if I applied myself the way I apply myself to opportunities to self-destruct, I would have a college degree.”

“My father,” Enjolras says, holding out his hand until Grantaire drops the phone into it, "gives a million euros to charity every year. But he still owns a private jet.”

He finishes typing in his number and hands the phone back to Grantaire, whose expression is faintly awed.

“So, I guess I’ll text you?” Grantaire says. “That’s cool. I’ll get right onto that. Not right away, but in a very reasonable time frame. And then I’ll just see if you reply, and if you don’t, that’s cool, too, no harm done. I can’t believe your dad owns a plane. I’ll probably text you tomorrow, just so that you have my number, too, and then we’ll see. Right?”

Enjolras, already in the process of going inside, says, “Thank you for walking me home."

8

It takes Combeferre three days to notice that Enjolras’ increased phone usage is not at all related to social activism. Possibly he would have realised it sooner, but Grantaire texts Enjolras on a Monday, and Combeferre’s final exam is on Thursday, so he spends the majority of these days at his desk. Enjolras is used to yearning for the end of exam seasons, in the somewhat distant way he yearns for things that aren’t the liberty of the people or gluten-free bread. Right now, though, it feels like whenever he’s annoyed that no one has time for the cause, his phone chimes with a new text message from Grantaire.

On Thursday, Enjolras meets Combeferre outside the faculty of medicine. Virtually every other person he knows studies Law, except for Joly, who’s with Doctors Without Borders and hasn’t been in France for over a year, and Feuilly, who’s swamped with orders at his workshop but who still videocalls Enjolras once a week. Seeing as the final Law exam is tomorrow, this means it’s just going to be him and Combeferre tonight.

Combeferre shakes his head when Enjolras asks how it went, so instead, they talk about Karl Marx, a tried and trusted topic since they were teenagers. They pause their conversation in order to get pastries from the bakery, and just as they’re back outside and ready to go home, Enjolras’ phone vibrates.

He checks it before he can think about it, and sees that Grantaire has sent him a picture. It shows Grantaire himself, wearing a red hoodie with a hammer on it. It’s accompanied by the words, _ready to read the manifesto!!!!11on e_.

“Am I boring you?” Combeferre asks very politely.

Another text message arrives. Grantaire again. _Got the hammer, getting ready to nail!_

 _You’re missing a sickle_ , Enjolras types. Grantaire replies with an emoji that seems odd.

“What does an eggplant symbolise?” he asks, fingers poised above the keyboard as he walks.

Combeferre makes an odd choking noise. “In what context?”

“Never mind,” Enjolras says, and scrolls through the entire emoji list until he finds a little red flag.

When he puts his phone back in his pocket and looks up, he finds that Combeferre is watching him. “Whom are you texting?”

Enjolras hesitates without knowing why. “Grantaire,” he says. For some reason, it feels like giving up a secret.

“The guy who’s not actually homeless?”

“Yes.”

“The one with the muscles?”

“Yes,” Enjolras repeats, somewhat reluctantly.

“Oh.” They’re home, and Combeferre holds open the front door for Enjolras before he checks the letter box. Several letters come falling out. All of them are for Enjolras.

Back in the apartment, Combeferre puts on the kettle, and Enjolras, inexplicably frustrated, sits down at their makeshift kitchen table and watches Combeferre make tea.

It’s not until they both have cups in front of them that Combeferre speaks again. “You know,” he says, “it’s okay to text people. You’re not betraying the cause.”

“I know that,” Enjolras snaps. “It’s not about that.” Except, he thinks, it kind of is. But he doesn’t know how to articulate that it’s one thing to spend an evening with his friends in a bar without talking about the next rally, and another thing entirely to talk to Grantaire.

“Okay,” Combeferre agrees. “We don’t have to bring it up again.”

“Good.”

They both take a sip of their tea at the same time, then both flinch simultaneously from burning their tongue.

“If I were your parent,” Combeferre says to Enjolras’ horror, “I believe this is where I would threaten to ground you.”

And, right on time, there is yet another message from Grantaire. It’s a selfie again. This time his red jeans are visible too. _I’m wearing ALL red today ;))_ , he’s written.

Enjolras thinks about it, then sends him an eggplant emoji.

9

“Shots!” Courfeyrac exclaims for the fifth time tonight. A cheer goes through the group as everyone interrupts their conversation in order to down the shot Combeferre has just poured out, and Enjolras, in a concentrated effort not to ruin the mood, pretends to sip his as-of-yet-untouched beer.

Almost everyone came tonight, and almost everyone brought friends, which means that the Musain is packed. Some people have taken to the dance floor, and Jehan and Bahorel are commandeering the karaoke machine. It’s so hot in here that Enjolras has shed first his coat, then his jumper, and now that even his t-shirt is stuck to his back in a layer of sweat, he’s kind of wishing that it were socially acceptable to take that off, too.

Bossuet, who is sitting next to Enjolras, downs his drink, ruffles Enjolras’ hair, and wanders off, presumably to find more beer. This leaves Marius free to slide in the seat next to Enjolras instead, and when he does, he also grabs Enjolras hands.

Enjolras blinks at him. From the periphery of his vision, he sees that Courfeyrac’s head just whipped around to stare at their intertwined hands on the table. A second later, Combeferre appears, also staring.

“Enjolras,” Marius says, slurring so much that it sounds like he’s mocking his name. “I have to ask you something. You’re so _pretty_. Like a fairy, but also, not? Cosette – I think I mentioned her, right? My girlfriend? She’s also _so_ pretty. And we’ve been talking about kids, and I just want to give her the cutest babies in the world because she deserves that, and personally, I’ve always thought that I’m a bit awkward-looking, and sometimes I just ask myself, am I handsome enough to make babies with an actual angel? And I look at you, and I bet you’d make the prettiest babies too, so I was just wondering if, you know.”

Enjolras tries to twist his hand away, but Marius’ grip is surprisingly strong. He casts a helpless look around, and finds that his friends are either all distracted, or watching this scene unfold like a car crash.

“You’re drunk,” Enjolras says, unable to not make it sound like he’s judging, because he’s always been a terrible liar. “Also, you’ve only been dating for two months.”

“Six weeks,” Marius corrects happily. “Will you do it?”

Enjolras says, “I have no intentions now or ever to donate sperm for your girlfriend.” This time, he’s successful in extricating himself from Marius’ grip. Marius, nursing his newly bruised wrist, nods in understanding and says, “That’s fine, no hurt feelings, I’ll ask someone else. Hey, have you seen Courfeyrac around anywhere?”

After Marius has left, no one else approaches for a while, since they’re all too busy watching Marius question all their friends systematically. Enjolras sends a text to Grantaire, then another. Both go unanswered. He puts his phone away and, deciding that this point the evening can only improve, drinks half of his beer in one go.

An indistinct amount of time passes. Enjolras is distantly aware of drinking until someone, maybe Combeferre, takes the glass away from him, and then someone else drags him to the dance floor. Enjolras has been doing martial arts for most of his life, which has given him 10 % bodyfat and quick reflexes, but it has not, regrettably, given him much of a sense for rhythm. Right now, he’s too drunk to mind, though, so he tries to copy Courfeyrac’s movements as best he can and dances until his head is spinning, and keeps on dancing until Courfeyrac, once again, yells, “SHOTS.”

They go to the bar, where Courfeyrac orders shots for them both, waits until Enjolras has drunk his, and then forcibly sits him down on an empty bar chair, gripping his upper arms to keep him from moving.

“Enjolras? Are you with me?”

“I’m not giving you my sperm,” Enjolras says. He feels woozy.

Courfeyrac shakes his head, which does not help Enjolras’ dizziness. “Forget about the sperm! I’m going to tell you something, and then you have to tell me something, and then we’ll be even and we will never talk about this again. Okay?”

It’s hard to listen. Enjolras echoes, “Okay” and knows it was the right decision when Courfeyrac pumps his fist in the air. The music is loud enough that they have to shout at each other to be heard.

“Yes! Okay. Are you listening? Do you want another shot?”

“No.”

Courfeyrac leans really, really close, and shouts directly into his ear, “I really, really want Combeferre to fuck me.”

Enjolras doesn’t quite know what to say to this. When he decides to at least make an attempt, Courfeyrac clamps his hand over his mouth and says, “No, don’t say anything. I don’t need advice, I just couldn’t go one moment longer without telling anyone. Okay! For blackmail material purposes, it’s now your turn.”

“My turn?”

Courfeyrac nods enthusiastically. “Tell me a secret. Something I don’t know!”

Before he can, quite honestly, state that he doesn’t have any secrets, Enjolras suddenly sees someone making their way through the dancers.

Grantaire, he thinks, and maybe he says it out loud, too, because Courfeyrac follows his gaze, and then turns rapidly back to him, eyes wide. His grip on Enjolras’ arms intensifies. “ _Him_? Really?”

“I want to go home,” Enjolras says. He’s tired, and somewhat nauseous, and he could swear he just saw Grantaire, which means that either he’s hallucinating or Grantaire is actually here, and if it’s the latter, then maybe Grantaire will want to come over and talk to him, and then there’s a very real chance of Enjolras puking on his shoes.

Courfeyrac, unaware of his inner crisis, salutes and says, “As you wish. Give me one minute, and then we’ll get you to bed.”

He leaves, to find Combeferre, maybe, or to organise a cab. Enjolras stays by the bar, concentrating on breathing.

Soon enough, there’s someone in front of him, except that it’s not Courfeyrac, and it’s not Combeferre.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Grantaire says, winking at him like winking is something people actually do in real life. “Enjoying the Parisian club scene?”

“I’m waiting for someone,” Enjolras informs him, and attempts to get up. His knees promptly buckle, and he would have fallen, were it not for Grantaire steadying him.

“Waiting for me, apparently. I’m under strict orders to take you home.” Grantaire pretends to bow. Somewhere behind him, Enjolras sees Courfeyrac, waving and giving him the thumbs-up before disappearing back in the crowd.

“Easy,” Grantaire murmurs into his ear when Enjolras tries to stand up again. “Let’s go outside, get you some fresh air. I was going to suggest a moonlight stroll home, but now I’m thinking that we should just get a cab. Here, put your arm over my shoulder.”

Together, they’re able to successfully push through the crowd and leave the Musain. Enjolras is still sweaty, even in the brisk night air. He waits until Grantaire is busy hailing a cab, and takes off his shirt.

Grantaire, having effectively organised a cab, swears when he sees Enjolras. “What are you doing?”

“I was hot.” Enjolras hands Grantaire the shirt and stumbles into the backseat. Grantaire follows suit, and the cabbie starts driving.

Enjolras doesn’t remember much from the car ride. One minute they’re in the backseat together, the next, Grantaire is wrestling with the lock to Enjolras and Combeferre’s apartment. Courfeyrac must have given him not just the address, but also his spare key, Enjolras thinks, in between trying not to vomit.

It’s only when Grantaire confidently leads Enjolras into the bedroom that Enjolras remembers that Grantaire was here before. Twice, in fact. “Which bed is yours?” Grantaire asks, and Enjolras points at the one on the right. “Right,” Grantaire says, as he carefully helps Enjolras slip under the covers. “I can’t believe you guys share a room. I’m surprised you don’t have bunkbeds.”

Enjolras clumsily pats at Grantaire’s hair, trying to soften the curls. It doesn’t work very well. For a while, Grantaire seems happy to just let things run their course, but eventually, he moves away. “Christ, how much did you have to drink?”

“Not much.”

“Lightweight?” Grantaire asks and, before Enjolras can confirm, adds, “Wait – this _is_ only from booze, right? Someone didn’t spike your drink or anything?”

“A guy tried, once,” Enjolras slurs. “I broke his jaw. He’s in jail now.”

“Good,” Grantaire says, eyes flashing. This time, when Enjolras reaches for his hair again, he actually sits down on the bed, for better access. “For attempted assault?”

“For tax evasion,” Enjolras says. He’s tired, but he doesn’t want to go to sleep just yet. In the morning, he’s going to have the world’s worst hangover, and also, Grantaire will be gone.

“Well,” Grantaire says, “next time, give me a call. I’ll hold his arms for you.”

Enjolras says, “okay”, and thinks he feels fingers stroking his hair just as he’s falling asleep.

10

The afternoon sun is high up in the sky by the time Enjolras wakes up. On his bedside table are a glass of water and a pill, and he dutifully takes both, hoping that it will lessen his headache. There are voices coming from the kitchen: Combeferre and Courfeyrac, shouting at each other. Briefly, Enjolras contemplates going back to sleep, but he’s hungry and also, he needs to question his friends about what happened yesterday. Everything after his beer is a blur – there were shots, he thinks, and dancing, and at some point, Grantaire took him home? Why did he do that?

There’s something burning on the stove when he comes in, but neither Combeferre nor Courfeyrac pay it any mind.

“-cannot _believe_ you,” Combeferre is yelling, “you just – to a complete stranger!”

“He’s not a stranger,” Courfeyrac yells back. “It’s not like it was some shady guy I picked up in an alleyway!”

“No, it was a shady guy from Grindr. You’re right, that’s way better.”

Enjolras quietly moves past them towards the stove, where he tries to salvage whatever it is that’s in the pan. It doesn’t work so instead, he dumps it in the trashcan. 

“I just cannot understand how anyone could be this irresponsible,” Combeferre says, his lips tugging downwards, his tense stance screaming of disappointment. “Sometimes I just don’t understand you at all.”

“To be fair,” comes an amused voice from the couch, “I’ve learned from a reliable source that Enjolras could break my jaw.”

Combeferre’s look of disbelief would be funny, if Enjolras’ own face wasn’t mirroring it right now.

“He’s _still here_?” Combeferre shouts at Courfeyrac.

Enjolras ducks under Courfeyrac’s defensively outstretched arms in order to get to the fridge, finds that they’ve finally eaten everything from Combeferre’s mum and apparently no one thought to go shopping since, and, making a split-second decision, goes to his room. He emerges again a few minutes later, now fully dressed, and is relieved to see Grantaire still on the couch, still sipping his tea. Enjolras was not aware that they had any tea in their apartment.

“Next time you go shopping,” he says, “bring some eggs.”

“I’ll add it to the grocery list,” Grantaire says seriously. “Up for some breakfast?”

Enjolras glances back at the kitchen.

“I thought he _left_ ,” Courfeyrac is shouting, “how was I supposed to know? And why is it _my_ job, anyway? It’s _your_ apartment!”

“It’s your job if I say it’s your job!” Combeferre yells, and in that moment he sounds so much like Enjolras that Enjolras flinches.

“Come on,” Grantaire says, making a show of opening the door for him. “It’s my turn to get the check, anyway.”

They leave. It turns out Courfeyrac and Combeferre’s argument can be heard even on the street.

11

As the days get longer, so do their nights. Enjolras organises one protest, then another, has about eight cups of coffee a day, stops sleeping, upgrades to ten cups a day, gives an interview to a television reporter that gets cut because it’s too violent, phones his parents exactly once and gets into an argument with them immediately, takes a part-time job as writing articles for the campus magazine that he gets fired from within two days, organises a third protest, and then, going home one night from Courfeyrac and Marius’ apartment, he runs into Grantaire.

“Oh,” Grantaire says, waving at him a bit awkwardly. “Hey.”

He and Grantaire are still texting, but they haven’t met up again, not since that night at the club and the breakfast on the morning after. Enjolras considered inviting him to the rallies, or to the meetings, or to any social outing at all, but every time he tried to draft the text, he couldn’t figure out the right phrasing. He supposes it’s because he and Grantaire have never just _hung out_. They’ve met by accident a few times, they exchanged numbers, Grantaire took care of him when he was drunk, and that’s it. It’s not a big deal.

“Hey,” Enjolras says. It’s a warm night, so neither of them are wearing coats, and under Grantaire’s shirt collar he now sees a bruise peaking out. Enjolras frowns and Grantaire, catching his gaze, blushes. His hand shoots up like he means to cover it; then, as though realising the futility of the gesture, scratches the back of his neck instead.

“Got lucky tonight.” The second the words leave his mouth, Grantaire looks horrified, and now Enjolras is the one blushing, because until now, he hadn’t realised the nature of the bruise.

In lieu of a better reply, Enjolras gives a stiff nod. “I see.”

“It wasn’t very serious, though,” Grantaire blurts out. “Just a booty call oh my _god_ why can’t I stop talking?”

“I see,” Enjolras says again. He can’t stop looking at the hickey.

“Well, anyway,” Grantaire says in a poor effort to change the subject, “what about you then? Are we both doing the walk of shame?”

“No.” Enjolras clenches his jaw and is unable to meet Grantaire’s eyes. Every muscle of his body is tense, his fists tightly clenched, and he can’t think of anything but the hollow pit in his stomach, the hickey, the half-mocking, half self-deprecating way Grantaire asked, _Are we both doing the walk of shame?_ “Have a good night,” Enjolras says, faintly surprised at how civil he sounds, and takes his leave.

Grantaire catches up with him at the next street corner. “Wait!”

Enjolras walks faster.

“Enjolras! I didn’t mean it. I know you don’t – it was a joke in poor taste. If anything,” Grantaire adds, lips twitching, “I don’t think you’re capable of shame at all. You strike me as someone with strong convictions and little self-doubt. Me, I’m the opposite. I frequently doubt the way of life, the universe, and myself, and I have no convictions to speak of. Aha! I see you’re about to scold me. Does that mean I’m forgiven?”

Enjolras hesitates. The heavy weight of Grantaire’s gaze is almost tangible, at once apologetic and hopeful and with the underlying layer of bitter amusement that’s always present in everything Grantaire says and does.

“Your face says it all; I spoke too soon. Well, I shall work hard to earn your favour again. Let me start by walking you home. Paris can be dangerous at night.”

“Our fears always outnumber our dangers,” Enjolras says. “Seneca.”

“Risks are stupid,” Grantaire says. “Grantaire.”

Enjolras smiles against his own volition, quickly turning his head so that Grantaire doesn’t see. It’s too late; Grantaire is already staring. “Say that in Latin and I will make you tea when we get to my place.”

“Bonum vinum laetificat cor hominis,“ Grantaire says without missing a beat. It almost makes Enjolras smile again.

12

For twenty minutes now, Enjolras been sitting in Courfeyrac’s kitchen, avoiding eye contact with Marius, and waiting for Courfeyrac to come home. The whole reason he’s here in the first place is because he thought Courfeyrac _was_ home; as soon as he realised he wasn’t, Enjolras was prepared to go home and get some work done instead.

“Hold on,” Marius had said quickly, about half an hour ago when Enjolras showed up, “why don’t you wait here for him instead? We can, you know, get to know each other better. I feel like we hang out all the time and I don’t even know what your major is.”

Enjolras, in a rare fit of kindness, had refrained from pointing out that, as far as he was concerned, he and Marius didn’t ‘hang out’, they just happened to share a mutual friend. “Tell Courfeyrac I need to talk to him,” he’d said, and made for the door.

Proving surprisingly quick reflexes, Marius darted in front of him, effectively blocking his exit. “Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“No! Just, don’t you want to stay here for a bit? I’ll make us tea, we can talk about boys. Wait, is that homophobic?”

“Why would it be homophobic?” Enjolras asked absently, before the full meaning of Marius’ words registered. He’d frowned, and at the same time, Marius seemed to grow more jittery. “Why should I stay?” he asked, realising immediately that it was the wrong question. He had corrected himself to, “Why should I not go home?” and knew he’d hit the nail on the head when Marius’s face turned even redder.

“No, just, no reason.” Then, Marius made two mistakes. The first was to glance at his phone with a somewhat guilty expression on his face. The second was to not resist harder when Enjolras took it away to read the messages.

Three texts from Courfeyrac, all sent in the last hour.

_yoo marius  
_

_@ C’s, we need the flat for a bit, I sent Enjolras to our place instead!! he’ll be there in 10  
_

_just make him tea and entertain him, he’s like a kitten, no big deal! Thx xxx_

At this point, Enjolras was struck by several realisations all at once, not least of all that he really, really shouldn’t go home right now, lest he be traumatised forever.

Which is why he’s now sipping badly-made tea and pretending Marius isn’t sitting across from him, throwing him nervous looks every few seconds.

“Do you want-“

“I’m going to-“

“Sorry, sorry,” Marius says, paling a bit. “You go first!”

Enjolras places his cup back in the saucer and stands up, briefly glancing at his watch. “It’s been almost half an hour. They should be done three times over by now, so I’m going to find Courfeyrac and get this over with. He’s kept me waiting long enough.”

“Um.” Marius coughs. “I thought you understood that- surely, they need a little more time? Or a lot more? Maybe we could put on a movie. How do you feel about Kate Winslet?”

“I don’t know who that is, and I don’t care. Why would they need more time?”

Marius, blushing again, stumbles over his words three times and then settles on making a suggestive gesture instead, to which he adds, “That just takes a little longer than thirty minutes. I mean – _you_ know. You _know_ , right?”

“I,” Enjolras starts, and stops.

“Oh my god,” Marius says, “you _don’t_ know. That’s, okay. I’m not judging! Technically, I haven’t- but that’s a marriage thing, we just want to be sure, and then in the end it’s going to be all the more beautiful when God is with us, but I thought you- gay people shouldn’t- I mean, gay people _can_ – really, never?”

Enjolras ignores him, his attention focused on the text message he just received. At first he hoped it would be Courfeyrac, giving him the all-clear, but it’s not. It’s Grantaire, sending him another selfie. In this one, he’s cuddling a large shaggy dog of a breed Enjolras has trouble identifying, because Enjolras usually has no opinions on any animals, ever. He has to admit that this one holds a certain appeal though. Another text comes in; in this one, Grantaire has added, _just took him for a walk, now off to work!!! he gets lonely_ , followed by a string of sad emojis.

“Are you _smiling_?” Marius asks, horrified. “What happened, did they overthrow the government?”

Enjolras has no intentions to reply, but it turns out he doesn’t need to, Marius has already stepped next to him to read the text over his shoulder. “Oh, I didn’t realise you knew Grantaire. Is that a Newfoundland he’s hugging? When did he get a dog?”

“You know Grantaire?” Enjolras demands.

Marius tils his head in confusion, his eyes big and puzzled. “Yes? He teaches a few classes at the gym down the road, I met him when I tried to get into better shape for Cosette, until she told me that she loved me as I was, and you always talk about body positivity and how gyms are actual capitalistic hell, so now I’m just a lot happier as a person, and I’ve really-“

“Marius,” Enjolras interrupts, “focus. Grantaire.”

“Grantaire! Yes. I went to his self-defence class a few times, he taught me how to punch someone without breaking my hand, that was great. Did you know you’re not supposed to put your thumb inside your fist?”

“Which gym?”

“What?”

“When Courfeyrac moved here, he specifically picked a place in close proximity to several gyms so he could meet more people with muscles,” Enjolras explains impatiently. “Which gym does Grantaire work at?”

Very slowly, Marius’ expression clears up. He scratches his chin in a knowing way that Enjolras does not appreciate. “The one next to the bubble tea shop, Crossfit Zone or something. Are you going to go there? Right now? When I realised where Cosette lived, I followed her home immediately, it was very romantic. Grantaire will love it.”

Enjolras would rather swallow shards of glass than take any pointers from Marius, ever, but something in that ramble gives him pause. “Romantic,” he says, more to himself than anything, testing the word out like it’s the first time he’s said it out loud. Perhaps it is. There’s one thing he’s sure about, though: “You’ve misunderstood. Grantaire and I aren’t – there is no Grantaire and I.”

The very notion is ludicrous, he thinks. Grantaire isn’t…and also, more importantly, Enjolras isn’t, either. Whatever Marius thinks, whatever Marius is imagining right now, it’s not true. It’s never _been_ true. Enjolras realised a very long time ago that this sort of thing would not be a part of his life, and then immediately moved on to bigger and more important things.

Grantaire, in the grand scheme of things, isn’t one of those things at all.

He only realises that Marius has said something else when the silence grows somewhat expectant. “What?”

“I asked, then why did you want to know where he works?” Marius says.

And Enjolras says, with no hesitation whatsoever, “I need to talk to him about his dog.”

13

He doesn’t usually frequent gyms. No one should need to pay for ways to stay healthy; in fact, the entire public conception of fitness and beauty speaks of a deeply flawed society, and besides, in between his martial arts classes and the only half-legal underground fight club Bahorel organises sometimes, he doesn’t have much time left for other sorts of physical activity. Also, gyms tend to make him uncomfortable in ways he can’t entirely comprehend. Whenever he comes to meet Courfeyrac after his work-out, he gets stared at a lot, something not uncommon but nevertheless especially uncomfortable in combination with sweaty, half-naked bodies.

He hasn’t been to this particular gym before – Courfeyrac either hasn’t discovered it yet, or the members weren’t pretty enough –, but it looks exactly like every other gym Enjolras has ever seen, except for the abundance of candles everywhere. The front desk is occupied by a tanned man with very white teeth, a little older and a lot more enthusiastic than Enjolras.

“Welcome to Crossfit Zone, thank you for _crossing_ the border into our hearts, I hope you come a- _cross_ much energy and love, how may I help you _cross_ over to a new life?”

“I’m looking for Grantaire.”

“You’re in luck, he’s just in between sessions. Come on, I’ll take you to him. Can I interest you in a free trial for our meditation regimen?”

“I don’t meditate.” Enjolras tried, once, when Combeferre attempted to get him and Courfeyrac into a more stress-free lifestyle. Within two minutes, Courfeyrac had been asleep, and Enjolras had only lasted another thirty seconds or so before he’d excused himself to check his emails.

“Maybe you should,” the man suggests. “You look very tense. Your aura is- oh, here we are.” They’ve walked up two flights of stairs and are now at a door that must lead out onto the roof. Enjolras leaves the man in the staircase without another word and enters the roof, where he spots Grantaire sitting at the edge and smoking. The door falls shut and Grantaire, clearly catching the sound, tenses and hastily snubs out his cigarette, turning around with his hands held up and a sheepish smile. He relaxes once he sees that it’s Enjolras, and says, “Sorry, I thought you were one of the guys. I’m not supposed to smoke, it messes with the energies of this place or something.”

Enjolras forces himself to ignore the nonsensical pang of hurt he feels at not being labelled One of the Guys. “It’s a gym, not a cult,” he says.

Grantaire’s smile widens. “Well,” he says, “technically, it’s a cult.”

“What,” Enjolras says flatly.

“Yeah, the gym is mostly a front for getting new members and also money laundering, probably. Pays well, though. And they almost never ask me to participate in any weird moonlight rituals. Did they ask you to join their meditation circle? Don’t agree to that under any circumstances, they’ll lock you in a room and ask you lots of weird questions about your parents and your childhood, and then they’ll try to make you sign up for extra classes to cleanse your soul.”

Enjolras does not know what to reply to this. “If you need money-“ he starts, only to be interrupted immediately.

“Money! Are you serious? You think me a slave to the shallow religion of Mammon? You wound me. No, I do it solely for the benefits of keeping my aura a nice, glowing orange.”

Enjolras knows when he’s being mocked, and as always, he has no patience for it. “About your dog,” he says, and for the first time, is able to render Grantaire speechless for a few seconds.

“You came here to talk about my _dog_? Really? That’s why you- okay. I’m over it, and I’ve moved on. Continue.”

“Where do you live?”

“Like, right next to the Musain, basically. If you’re having a mental breakdown, I want you to know that I am not at all equipped to handle it. I am, however, willing to supply you with any alcohol of your preference or cryptic life advice, if you like.”

“It’s not a mental breakdown,” Enjolras says brusquely. “I live quite close to- you know where I live. I go on a run by the Seine every morning. It’s no trouble to take a dog with me.”

“You want to take Meatball on your daily run?”

Enjolras nods. It’s one of the first truly hot days of the summer today, and back in Marius’ apartment he was sweating, but here on the roof there is a small refreshing breeze. He can see why Grantaire likes it up here, in addition to the secret smoking.

“ _Why_?” Grantaire asks, only to immediately add, “Actually, never mind, I would love to explore the inner workings of your mind but I do have to go back to work now, so we’ll need to postpone this.”

“Text me your address,” Enjolras says, as they make their way back down the stairs. “I go running at five.”

“Cool,” Grantaire says, saluting him. “Just ring the bell; either I’ll still be up and can let you in, or I’ll hopefully be asleep and in that case you can come collect the dog yourself. Key’s in the yellow flowerpot thing my landlady keeps outside the building, and if there’s weed in there, just ignore it, or you’ll get me in trouble with my neighbours. Oh look, here we are.” He stops at a glass door through which a large room with several mats all over the floor is visible. “Avoid eye contact on your way out, or else they really will recruit you. Pretty face like that, they’ll want you for their poster campaign. Where did you hear I worked here, by the way?”

Enjolras had been letting Grantaire’s monologue wash over him like a wave. Now that he’s being directly addressed, he startles briefly. “Marius.”

“Oh,” Grantaire says, with something like disappointment colouring his voice. “Perfectly reasonable explanation, I see. Well, I’ve gotta go teach some people the arts of hitting someone, so – unless you want to join?”

“I know how to hit people,” says Enjolras, who knows a lot more than that. Grantaire nods, mimics calling him, and disappears behind the door. On his way to the exit, Enjolras runs into no fewer than three people who try to convince him to sit down for a quick chat about his trauma, and, Grantaire’s words still ringing in his mind, he ignores every one of them.

14

Enjolras has been going on daily runs ever since he moved to Paris. He prefers to do it in winter, getting up while it’s still dark and coming home just as the sun is rising, his skin burning from the cold and his muscles burning from exhaustion. He hardly ever meets other people during those months between November and March, and he likes it that way: Paris asleep, Enjolras awake.

Right now it’s summer, which means that he shares his route with dozens of other joggers, most of whom nod at him as they pass each other. He’s never taken a dog with him before, but there’s something about the idea that appeals to him.  
Combeferre is still out when he leaves the apartment, his bed cold and unslept in. He must be at Courfeyrac’s, probably arrived there soon after Enjolras himself left yesterday. They missed each other, and Enjolras can’t bring himself to regret that fact right now.

Grantaire, it turns out, really does live two doors down from the Musain. He’d warned Enjolras about being asleep, and so Enjolras doesn’t wait long before he lets himself in. As soon as he opens the door a giant dog pounces on him, barking excitedly and almost succeeding in tackling him to the ground. When that doesn’t work, the dog proceeds to drool on Enjolras’ clothes and tries to take Enjolras’ whole hand in his mouth, not biting, just licking. Enjolras is charmed.

Even in the complete mess that is Grantaire’s apartment, the leash and collar, as well as the post-it note, are quickly located on the kitchen table. Enjolras reads the note first.

_Meatball is very friendly, he loves running, treats, and walks on the beach!! Have fun and be home before curfew!!  
\- R_

There’s a pen there, too – there are pens everywhere, for some reason, on every surface that Meatball can’t reach –, and so Enjolras uncaps it and considers adding a line of his own, except that he cannot come up with anything. He’s not witty by nature, and he’s never tried to be. In the end, he simply writes, _Gone out, will return in an hour_. His cursive, painfully clean handwriting stands in stark contrast to Grantaire’s almost ineligible letters.

Meatball’s tail is wagging, wagging, wagging, all while Enjolras fastens the collar and attaches the leash, and he continues to be bouncing with excitement all the way out the door. They set off immediately, Enjolras falling into the familiar routine on instinct. For the first few minutes or so, Enjolras keeps adjusting his speed to find one comfortable for Meatball to keep up with until they find something that works, and every now and then they stop so the dog can relieve himself or drink water from the collapsible bowl that Enjolras brought along. Apart from that, though, they run together amiably.

At some point during one of the water breaks, a fellow runner comes to a stop in front of them, smiling at Enjolras. “Your dog is adorable,” he says. “What’s his name?”

“Meatball.”

The man’s smile falters. “Cute,” he says, sounding unconvinced. “I’m Louis.” He pauses, like he’s waiting for something. Enjolras checks on Meatball – currently peeing against a lamp post – and says nothing. “Crazy idea,” Louis says. “How about we complete the rest of our run together?”

At that moment, Meatball is finished, so Enjolras scratches him behind the ears and takes off, leaving Louis on the pavement. “Commendable timing,” he tells Meatball, who barks in agreement.

The oppressive July sun is high in the sky by the time Enjolras lets himself back into Grantaire’s apartment. Grantaire might still be asleep, since the living room is empty, and so Enjolras has no compunctions about going into his bathroom to find a towel with which he can rub Meatball dry.

He doesn’t realise that the shower is on until he goes inside and hears a muffled yelp, followed by Grantaire poking his head around the curtain. “I thought you were a burglar,” he says accusingly.

Enjolras refrains from pointing out that Grantaire himself told him the location of his spare key. “I need a towel,” he informs him.

Grantaire points at a shelf in the corner, where several towels are stacked without order. “You need a shower, too,” he says. “I’ll be out in a minute, you should probably have about three more minutes of hot water left, so be quick.”

“I prefer cold showers.”

“Of course you do,” Grantaire says. There is a moment wherein they just look at each other, before Grantaire clears his throat. “So, if you could – you can stay, but you kind of caught me right in the middle of something, so-“

“Of course,” Enjolras says, blood rushing to his cheeks. “Take your time.”

He’s still thinking about their exchange after he’s towelled Meatball off. He doesn’t usually – Combeferre _knows_ he doesn’t, but Grantaire –

Meatball pulls him out of his thoughts by jumping on the couch and putting Enjolras’ hand in his mouth again. With his free hand, Enjolras checks his phone. Seven new texts, none of them from Combeferre, none of them from Courfeyrac.

“Shower’s free,” comes Grantaire’s voice from the door. “I left some clothes for you, too. If you don’t like them, feel free to raid my wardrobe, although probably you won’t find much – I skipped laundry day, like, a lot.”

Enjolras emerges from the shower some time later, his hair still damp and falling down his back in loose curls. The sweatpants and boxers Grantaire gave him both fit fine, but the t-shirt was so big on him that he left it off, thinking that in the heat, it won’t make much of a difference either way.

“I put on the coffee machine, and you can pick between dry cereal and dry oatmeal, so-“ Grantaire trails off, staring at him.

“Cereal,” Enjolras says. Something about Grantaire’s gaze makes him feel awkward, though he’s not usually self-conscious about his body. “Your shirt was too big,” he explains, just as the coffee machine gives off a pling. Enjolras, whose only vice is a caffeine addiction, squeezes past Grantaire in the narrow kitchen in order to get to the coffee. Their bodies brush, and Grantaire flinches as though struck, almost tripping over the dog in his haste to get away. Meatball, offended at being scorned this way, trudges over to Enjolras, who sets down his cup and drops to his knees, allowing Meatball to put his huge paws on Enjolras shoulders and licking his face. From somewhere behind them comes a choked noise, and then Grantaire says, “Ask me yesterday, and I would have put one million euros on the guess that you’re not a dog person.”

“Consider my debt repaid, then,” Enjolras says, in between letting himself enveloped in a warm furry hug. 

“And release you from your oath? Never.”

“I don’t recall taking any oaths,” Enjolras says. “Why Meatball?”

Grantaire shrugs. “Why not? Look, it’s not like I didn’t try other names. Here I was, all prepared to make a clever reference, but he didn’t reply to Cerberus, and he ate my scarf when I called him Ardos, and, fearing further rejection, I didn’t dare to even try calling him Orthrus. That’s a life lesson right there – you can try your best, you can send them to boarding school and get them special tutors, and in the end, if they decide they only respond to Meatball or want to move to Paris and follow in the great tradition of starving artists, you can accept defeat with dignity or be a dick about it. I, personally, chose dignity.”

Enjolras finally gets up, ignoring Meatball’s pitiful whine. He accepts the bowl of milk-less cereal Grantaire holds out, and says, “I went to boarding school. I didn’t care for it.”

Grantaire smiles. “Neither did I. But I’m sure I would have liked it much better, had you been there.”

15

For the next few days, Enjolras settles into a new routine. Every day, he wakes up five minutes before his alarm, gets dressed, and goes to collect Meatball. Grantaire is still asleep, but usually awake when Enjolras returns, and they have breakfast together.

After the first day, Grantaire buys milk for their cereal, and after the second day, Enjolras starts bringing them croissants from the nearby bakery that he and Meatball pass on their way back.

Enjolras still showers at Grantaire’s place, and he still borrows Grantaire’s clothes. In itself, it’s not so unusual – he and Combeferre, of similar statue and weight, share clothes all the time, and have done so for many years. Still, for some reason, whenever Enjolras dresses in Grantaire’s sweatpants and oversized shirts (he’s never dared to come out shirtless again, not after Grantaire’s strange reaction), he feels an odd thrill running through him.

Afterwards, they part ways for the day. Enjolras takes the long route home and stays in the apartment barely long enough to change into his own clothes before he’s out again, off to the Musain or to a friend’s place or to the new parttime editing job he’s secured and not yet lost. He often stays out until late in the night, by which point Combeferre is either already in bed, or still out himself.

He tells himself that he’s not consciously avoiding Combeferre. Their schedules have conflicted before, depending on classes and jobs and appointments, and every now and then, they can go weeks at a time without seeing each other at all.

And then, almost two weeks after Enjolras first started taking Meatball along on his runs, he comes home at some point around midnight, and finds Combeferre still up, waiting for him.

Enjolras freezes. His eyes dart around automatically, searching, and Combeferre, catching his gaze, says, “It’s just us.”

“By choice?” Enjolras asks, surprised by how harsh he sounds. “Did you tell Courfeyrac to stay home?”

“I did,” Combeferre replies easily. “It took quite some convincing. He misses you.”

“Tell him to come to the rally next week.”

“He will. We both will. You should know better than anyone how much we care.” Combeferre is sitting on the very end of the couch, more than enough room for Enjolras to sit without them touching, if he wants that. Instead, Enjolras sits down right next to him, partly because he wants to, partly because that’s how they always sit, and giving Combeferre space is an utterly foreign concept to him.

It eases his nerves when Combeferre, maybe also following an instinct, melts into him at once. For just one second, it’s like it’s always been – except that’s not quite right. Enjolras knows, has known all along, that for that, Courfeyrac would have to be at his other side.

Their living room is dim, lit only by their makeshift lamp next to the bookshelf after their overhead light broke a few days ago and neither of them have gotten around to fixing it yet. Perhaps the darkness should make it easier. But Enjolras has always preferred the light of day to the shadows of the night, and he’s always preferred harsh truths to sugar-coated lies.

Luckily, Combeferre shares his opinion.

“I’ve always been passionate about making the world a better place. But passions can be found for more than one thing at a time. Courfeyrac understands that. We want to help the people; we want to be with each other. Those two aren’t mutually opposed.” Combeferre says all of this very casually, like he’s reciting their grocery list. Now, he lets his head rest on Enjolras’ curls, and adds, “All of us advocate change. For the world, for the people, for everyone. I’m telling you now that this, right here, will never change.”

Enjolras closes his eyes. It’s impossible for Combeferre to spot it, but he still shifts, so that Enjolras’ head is now nestled on his shoulder. “Tell me,” Enjolras says, “do you really believe that all of us will remain exactly the same?”

“Yes.” Combeferre sounds confident, but for once, Enjolras can’t find it in himself to entirely agree.

“What if we don’t? Every day, Paris looks a little different than it did yesterday.”

“Should you wake up tomorrow, and find yourself an utterly different person than you were today, you will still find me by your side, unchanged.” For some time, there is silence except for their quiet breathing, until Combeferre says, “In any case, I’m happy we made up. Courfeyrac says he saw you with a dog the other day, and there are several bets riding on the reason.”

Enjolras, already on his way to drifting off, avoids the question by falling asleep with a faint smile.

16

It’s Bahorel who has the idea, because of course it is. They’re at the Musain, most of them tipsy, Bahorel and Courfeyrac more swinging on the side of drunk, and Enjolras has given up on having a productive discussion hours ago. Classes start again soon, and everyone wants to celebrate their last weeks of freedom, something he understands in theory but cannot, in practice, bring himself to be anything but silently judgemental about.

Bahorel downs his beer and points an unsteady finger at Enjolras. “You, my friend, are looking for supporters in all the wrong places,” he says.

Enjolras glances at the finger until Bahorel lowers it. “How so?”

“You hand out flyers, you have Courfeyrac managing your social media accounts, you go to protests and preach to the masses- all good and well, but you’re missing out on a big market.”

“What market is that?”

“Grindr,” Bahorel says, and laughs at whatever dismayed expression is showing on Enjolras’ face. “No, hear me out. Imagine it now: all that energy, wasted on sex. How do you stand by it? I raise you one better: lure them in with your pretty face, then propagate the manifesto. Do you want more beer? I’ll get you more beer.”

Bahorel wanders off in search of more alcohol, and Enjolras, now left behind at their table, feels reminded of that night back in June. Most of those memories are lost in the dizzy fog of intoxication, but he still remembers Grantaire. He never did ask what

Grantaire was doing there. Surely he can’t have come simply to see Enjolras to bed. Why else, then? To drink and dance, like everyone else? Or to find someone and – _see them to bed_?

A couple more hours pass until the majority of them are ready to go home. Cosette and Marius have disappeared an undeterminable amount of time ago, and now it’s Courfeyrac who declares the evening finished, leaning heavily against Combeferre as they leave. Enjolras walks with them and helps half-carry Courfeyrac up the stairs to their apartment, where they deposit him on Combeferre’s bed. “I suppose I will take the couch,” Combeferre says, because when they first moved in here, they opted for a shared bedroom and single beds, recreating their room at the boarding school without realising it. Courfeyrac sleeps over a lot, has done so since they met, and it’s never been an issue for one of them to sleep on the sofa instead. Now, though, with Courfeyrac collapsed on Combeferre’s mattress, and Combeferre watching him with a resigned, but fond look in his eyes, Enjolras suddenly feels like he’s intruding.

“Take my bed,” he says. “Push them together, if you like.”

“We can push them together,” Combeferre agrees, “and there will be room for all three of us.”

Enjolras shakes his head. “I’ve got a deadline tomorrow at noon and would have worked through the night anyway. I’m going to the library; take my bed and I will meet you for dinner.” Combeferre frowns and opens his mouth, ready to protest, so Enjolras adds, “I do not mind.” He means it, he realises.

At last, Combeferre nods his agreement. “Fine. Your deadline is at noon, so don’t wait for dinner. Come meet us for lunch.”

“I will,” Enjolras promises, and allows Combeferre to kiss his cheeks before he leaves.

He does have a deadline, and he does go to the library – which is closed. _Closed early due to staff illness_ , reads the sign on the door. That is somewhat inconvenient, but it’s not like Enjolras doesn’t know a good dozen of people who live in the area and will welcome him with open arms.

Feuilly’s place is closest, but he gets up at five, and will not appreciate Enjolras knocking on his door late at night. There’s also Marius, who would let him sleep in Courfeyrac’s empty bed and make him tea and promise to let him work in peace, and then proceed to talk about his girlfriend for hours on end.

The next person on the list is Jehan. Technically, there is nothing wrong with Jehan.

Enjolras doesn’t go to Jehan’s place, though. He moves the strap of his laptop case from one shoulder to the other, and starts the walk to Grantaire’s apartment.

It seems odd to just let himself in, but then, Enjolras has been doing exactly that for weeks now. He’s stopped putting the spare key back in the flowerpot, attaching it to his key ring instead, and it comes in useful now, because it’s half past one and Grantaire is probably asleep.

Enjolras slowly opens the door, double-checking to make sure that Meatball isn’t going to run out into the hallway. He’s fully prepared to settle down at the kitchen table with his laptop, placate the dog with a few treats if he shows, and deal with the fallout of his decision tomorrow morning.

He is not at all prepared, however, for Grantaire to be sprawled out over the couch, drinking directly from a bottle of wine, another, empty, bottle on the ground, awake and clearly drunk out of his mind.

Grantaire turns at the sound of footsteps, blinking sluggishly but making no move to get up. “Enjolras? What’re you d’ing here?”

Enjolras ignores the question. By now, he knows well how to navigate Grantaire’s flat, and it’s no difficult feat to turn on the coffee machine before getting a glass from one of the cupboards and filling it with tap water. He returns to the living room, where he plucks the wine from Grantaire’s hand and replaces it with the glass of water. Grantaire offers no resistance, but doesn’t make any move to drink it, either.

“I’m hallucinating,” he says out loud. “I’ve drunk too much wine, and now I’m imagining an angel sent from the heavens to smite me for not going to church. Well, joke’s on you! I don’t believe in God, and until, oh, one minute ago, I didn’t believe in the heavenly armies. Where’s your flaming sword? Show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.” Grantaire laughs at his own joke until Enjolras forcefully directs his hand to move the rim of the glass to his lips.

“Grantaire. Stop talking nonsense, and drink.”

Finally, Grantaire obeys. He takes a small sip, only to immediately frown, looking betrayed. “I’ve heard of changing water into wine. Why waste a miracle on doing the opposite?”

Not dignifying that with a reply, Enjolras helps Grantaire drink some more. It’s quite impressive, he thinks, that Grantaire is still capable of speech.

The coffee, with an impeccable sense of timing, is ready just as the glass is empty. Enjolras pours cups for Grantaire and himself, and this time, Grantaire drinks without prompting. “I’m very fortunate,” he mumbles in between sips. “You’ve not come to call the righteous, but sinners.”

“If you’re sober enough to quote the bible, you’re sober enough to get up and go to bed,” Enjolras says. He stands, offering Grantaire a hand. Grantaire takes it, and together, they make their way into Grantaire’s bedroom. Enjolras, with years of experience of taking care of drunk people, the latest of whom was Courfeyrac, no more than an hour ago, manhandles Grantaire onto the bed. He is just about to go back to the kitchen when suddenly, Grantaire slurs, “I picked the wrong religion, didn’t I? My fault, I should have looked harder. Tell me, did Apollo ever even learn Icarus’ name before he died?”

“No one is dying,” Enjolras says, more testily than he means to. He turns off the light as he leaves.

He works through the night, during the course of which he slowly but surely replaces all his blood with caffeine. At sunrise, he takes Meatball for a walk, and at quarter to eleven, he sends off his article one minute before Grantaire stumbles into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes. He looks half-asleep still, at least until he spots Enjolras. When he does, he swears, loud and viciously.

“I thought I’d dreamed you,” he says afterwards, absently rubbing Meatball’s belly with a socked foot. Meatball squirms and barks in delight. “So I didn’t – did you really come over in the middle of the night?”

“Yes.”

“ _Why_?” Grantaire asks. Then his face falls, confusing given way to the beginnings of horror, and he says, “Was it shelter you needed?”

“Shelter?” Enjolras repeats.

Faced with his incomprehension, Grantaire falters a bit. “You don’t live in the best neighbourhood, and there are many with ill intentions. Perhaps someone followed you home, and instead of helping you, I was drunk and useless and-“

“If someone did follow me home,” Enjolras says, very matter-of-factly, “I would make them stop.”

“You say that now, but I teach self-defence for a reason. Words aren’t always-“

“No,” Enjolras interrupts. “I meant, if someone followed me home, I would stop them by breaking their arm and dislocating their jaw.”

“Oh,” Grantaire says faintly. “That’s – right, okay. Of course you would. Well, now I just feel silly.”

“I came because I needed a place to work at and the library was closed,” Enjolras continues. “And also because-“ He breaks off. He’s not in the habit of lying, but how can he tell the truth if he doesn’t know what the truth _is_?

He changes the subject instead. “My friend told me to make a Grindr profile.”

Grantaire stops petting the dog and stares at him. “He told _you_ to get Grindr?”

Enjolras doesn’t know why he said it like that, why he emphasised the _you_. “Yes,” he says. “He made a good point on cornering untapped markets.”

“What, like, catfishing them?” Grantaire asks. He opens the fridge and questioningly holds out a carton of milk to Enjolras, who shakes his head. “Your friend told you to catfish people into joining your cause?”

In quick succession, he holds out a yoghurt (expired), a box of cereal, and an apple, and Enjolras proceeds to shake his head at every food item he’s presented with. “It’s not catfishing if we use a real account,” he says.

“What, and you came to ask me to make you one? I don’t think you need my help with that. Just upload a picture of you, any picture at all, and the gay men of Paris will be drawn in like magnets.” Having gone through almost his entire fridge, Grantaire, clearly resigned, shows him a pudding cup. His eyebrows shoot up when Enjolras nods.

“We don’t have to make me an account at all,” Enjolras explains, frustration colouring his words. “We can take yours.”

For the second time during this conversation, Grantaire stares at him, lips parted in surprise. “ _Mine_?”

“Well, why not?”

“For starters, because I’m not- unless we only use pictures where my shirt is off and my face is blurred out which, I grant you, has actually worked wonders for me in the world of casual Grindr hook-ups so far, but you have to see that surely, I’m not someone who inspires masses.”

“Not with that attitude, clearly,” Enjolras says. There is something very vexing about this conversation, even though he can’t quite put his finger on it. “But if you just let me explain to you the nature of our goals, you will be able to- just give me your phone, and I can show you.”

For some reason, Grantaire grimaces and awkwardly rubs the back of his neck. “Ah, there’s a second issue to consider.”

“What is it?”

“I’ve deleted my account.”

This time, Enjolras is the one staring. “Why?”

His question, if anything, appears to make Grantaire _more_ uncomfortable. “Enjolras, did you ever consider that there are some questions you don’t actually want to hear the answer to?”

“No.”

“I’m too hungover for this,” Grantaire states. He gets a spoon and steals a little bit of the pudding Enjolras is slowly eating, and then, not meeting Enjolras’ eyes, he says, “Fine. You’ve asked, and I shall deliver. The simple truth of the matter is that one day I woke up, the sky overhead as clear as your skin and as blue as your eyes, and I realised I have no interest in it more. That’s all there is to it, I’m sorry to say.”

No interest, Enjolras thinks. He opens his mouth, maybe to ask Grantaire to elaborate, except then, his phone rings.

It’s Courfeyrac, reminding him of their lunch plans and asking where he is.

“I’ve got to go,” Enjolras says. There is something self-deprecating in Grantaire’s nod, and it gets stronger as he says, “Of course. I understand.”

No matter what Grantaire claims, Enjolras cannot help but think that Grantaire doesn’t understand at all – and yet, there is no way for him to right things, if he himself is still unsure.

17

It was unanimously decided a long time ago that Courfeyrac would always be the one to cook, on account of both Combeferre and Enjolas being utterly useless in the kitchen. When Courfeyrac isn’t there, they eat a lot of sandwiches, and when he is, he always makes enough to have leftovers.

Today, he’s made pumpkin curry, and they’ve both waited for Enjolras before they started.

“You’re late,” Courfeyrac notes as he hands Enjolras the first plate. “Is this where we have a fight about house rules and tell you that you’re grounded until your grades improve?”

“Your sense of humour is lagging behind; I’ve already made that joke weeks ago.” Combeferre joins Enjolras at the table, but his eyes are never leaving Courfeyrac.

“Do I look like I’m joking?” Courfeyrac can hardly get the words out before breaking into a smile, aware as they are that he does, in fact, look like he’s joking almost all the time. Usually, he is. Sometimes, Enjolras thinks Courfeyrac must have been born with a twinkle in the eye.

“Grounding has yet to work on me,” Enjolras says.

“It’s true,” Combeferre agrees. “His parents and our teachers were driven to despair. Veni, vidi, victus sum – they came, they saw, they were conquered.”

“Now you’re mocking me,” Courfeyrac accuses good-naturedly. “You’re well aware that I’ve often lamented the fact that I didn’t meet you before university, if only to see Enjolras’ awkward puberty years.”

“No such luck. Enjolras went from cute to beautiful, with nothing in between. He never even had a pimple.”

As always when his appearance is brought up, Enjolras feels somewhat wrongfooted. He eats another forkful of rice to mask his uncertainty and is grateful when the conversation turns to something else instead.

For a while he continues eating in silence, the clatter of cutlery and Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s banter nothing but background noise to his musings. He wonders, absurdly, if Grantaire thinks he’s beautiful, too. He said as much on countless occasions but, Enjolras thinks, Grantaire is prone to mockery like no one else he has ever met, and it’s hard to take his words seriously. It feels embarrassing to ask, though, like he’s fishing for compliments when really he just wants to know where they stand.

“-asked about you, Enjolras,” Combeferre is saying, snapping Enjolras out of his thoughts.

“Pardon?”

“My parents want to know how you’re doing, and asked if you have enough warm clothes for the winter,” Combeferre says at the same time as Courfeyrac cries, “He’s not even listening! The audacity of today’s youth.”

Enjolras is, to his best knowledge, seven months older than Courfeyrac. It’s not much of a victory, however, because he still has to show his ID in almost every bar and club. “Tell them I’m quite happy with the last set of jumpers they sent me,” he says.

“My mother has also brought up your Christmas invitation four times in one phone call,” Combeferre continues, sounding fondly exasperated. “Courfeyrac, too. Something about letters getting lost in the mail?”

Courfeyrac at least remembers to look vaguely apologetic. “It’s August! I’m a free spirit, I can’t be expected to make a commitment for December.”

“You’ve made a commitment to me,” Combeferre points out. He puts down the fork to reach over the table and take Courfeyrac’s hand. Courfeyrac leans forward and kisses him twice, first on the cheek, then on the mouth, and says, “And I’m ready to run off in the opposite direction at the first sign of trouble, make no mistake! Relationships are messy and should not be had by anyone. When Enjolras becomes our dictator, I plan to propose this as a law.”

Smiling into the kiss, Combeferre says, “I will make sure to pass on your wise words to my mother.”

“As you should,” Courfeyrac says immediately, breaking into a smile himself.

Enjolras watches this exchange in silence, fond and impressed all at once. The argument is staged, because for the past few years, all three of them have gathered at Combeferre’s childhood home every Christmas without fail. Presumably they will do so this year as well; Courfeyrac, for all his claims of being a free spirit, will have booked their train tickets months in advance.

Enjolras looks forward to Christmas. And he looks forward to however few or many years he and Combeferre will spend here, in this tiny apartment with their even tinier bedroom that they’ve shared for so long, Courfeyrac in their midst. And also, he finds, he’s looking forward to whatever comes after. Changing apartments, changing the world, there’s not altogether that much difference.

He wonders where Grantaire will be, a few years down the road. If he’ll stay in Paris, if he’ll stay in his flat, if he’ll still meet Enjolras for breakfast every morning, if he’ll-

Oh, Enjolras thinks.

Across the table, Courfeyrac and Combeferre have abandoned their meal in favour of watching a Youtube video on racoons on Courfeyrac’s cracked phone screen. They’re arguing again, though about what, Enjolras doesn’t know.

He thinks that it’s nice, what they have.

He thinks that maybe, he would like to have this with Grantaire.

And then, because Enjolras is nothing if not a man of action, in politics and in life, he pushes the plate away and stands.

“Where are you going?” Courfeyrac asks, his finger hovering over the pause button like he’s a little too invested in racoons to stop the video, but would theoretically be willing to make that sacrifice if Enjolras insisted.

“To take care of something.” Enjolras hesitates, then adds, “Don’t wait up for me.”

18

This time, Enjolras rings the bell. It takes Grantaire a minute to open the door, and when he does, he seems confused. “Lost your key?” he asks, “because if you did, I can’t really afford to replace it, and I’ll have to fake my death before my landlady kills me.”

“Can I come inside?” Enjolras asks, and Grantaire blinks.

“What, did you get turned into a vampire in the two hours you were gone? If so, my condolences, I’d be happy to offer myself as a blood bag and-slash-or assist you with a nice little stake to the heart, depending on which plotline you want to follow oh my _God_ _yes_ you can come in, Christ.”

Once inside, Grantaire turns, looking a bit lost. He puts his hands in his pockets, takes them out, puts them back again, and finally settles for crossing his arms and raising one bushy eyebrow. “Not that seeing you doesn’t always brighten my day, but I can’t help but notice that you’re turning the showing-up-unannounced thing into a habit. And now you’re even making me get the door, which is a grave offense and punishable by death in some countries.”

“Stop,” Enjolras says sharply. Regret churns through him at the sight of Grantaire snapping his lips shut, looking pale, but there isn’t time for remorse. “I need you to listen.”

“Aye aye, sir,” Grantaire drawls. He performs a mocking salute without meeting Enjolras’ eyes. “I just need you to know that in the case of a divorce, I’m keeping the dog and suing you for alimony.”

“You- what?”

“He may like you better, after you’ve turned him against me with your daily runs and your treats and your marblelike beauty, but he was mine first and you can’t have him.”

“Stop talking about your dog,” Enjolras says, exasperated, and Grantaire salutes him again, a gesture that Enjolras is growing to despise.

In the subsequent silence, Enjolras takes a second to order his thoughts. He tends to think in straight lines, but something about Grantaire makes them run in twirls and flourishes instead, hard to follow and even harder to understand. He came here because once he figured it out, it was impossible to stay away, but now that he’s facing the object of whatever he’s feeling, it’s like his mind has blanked. He wonders, absently, if it was easier for Combeferre and Courfeyrac.

Clearly, he’s waited too long; Grantaire is already speaking again.

“Look, whatever you came here to say – can it wait?”

Enjolras had not been expecting this. “I suppose,” he says.

“Good,” Grantaire says, and disappears into his bedroom. Enjolras, in lieu of better things to do and still running on adrenaline, channels his pent-up energy into going through Grantaire’s fridge and throwing out every bit of food that’s spoiled.

A strange noise, between a wheeze and a groan, comes from the doorway and makes him look up. It’s Grantaire, and he’s struggling under the weight of a microwave.

“So, remember when we first met, and you assumed I was a homeless drug addict and you gave me your microwave to sell for some petty cash?” Grantaire asks. A bead of sweat trails down from his brow into his eye; he blinks rapidly against the sudden intrusion. “I don’t like being indebted to people, so.”

He holds out the microwave to Enjolras, who makes no move to take it. “You kept it?”

“What? No. It was like, super heavy, so I pretty much dumped it in a trashcan as soon as I’d left the building. But I felt really bad about it afterwards, and I got this idea to buy you a new one, especially because of your whole weird cold food thing. But I kept forgetting, and then last week I finally got around to it, and just in time, too, because now you’re breaking up with me and moving to Yemen, and the least I can do is give you your stuff back.”

There is a lot to unpack about that ramble, but Enjolras’ mind is stuck on the last part. “We’re not dating,” he points out, stunned more than anything.

“It was a Friends reference,” Grantaire says, which means nothing to Enjolras. Presumably remembering that most pop culture references are lost on him, Grantaire adds, his tone strangely kind, “You don’t need to worry. I know we’re not dating, it was just a joke. Someone like you wouldn’t – I’m not delusional enough to think that you’d ever even look at me twice, okay?”

“Someone like me?” Enjolras’ words sound, to his own ears, like he’s speaking underwater. It’s like time has stopped, and everything is muffled now, as though trying to understand someone through thick glass.

Grantaire’s face does an odd sort of twist. It’s become clear that Enjolras has no intentions on accepting the microwave, so he puts it on the ground instead, wipes the sweat off his forehead, and gestures vaguely. “You’re – when you walk into a room, it’s like you’re a beacon. Every head turns, everyone listens to what you have to say. I can’t imagine there is a single person in this city who wouldn’t fall in love with you on first sight. And me, I’m just a guy who drinks too much and hasn’t taken out his trash in over two weeks and who deleted his dating app when he fooled himself into thinking that maybe, the most beautiful man in Paris had shown a little hint of jealousy, a little hint of affection.”

“You’re wrong,” Enjolras says. And, just like that, everything he wants to say, everything he has been silently panicking over, just falls into place. It is, Enjolras thinks, the easiest thing in the world. “Whatever you just described, that’s not me, and it’s not you, either. You weren’t imagining things. I did look at you twice. More than twice.”

“Oh,” Grantaire says faintly, sounding dazed. “So is this- can I-“ He reaches out, only to pull back immediately. Enjolras takes his hand and, quite firmly, puts it against his cheek.

For a moment he thinks he’s made the wrong move, that maybe Grantaire hadn’t meant to touch him at all, but then Grantaire cups his face with both broad hands, looking at him with reverence. Just once, his eyes dart to Enjolras’ lips, questioning, and

Enjolras gives one decisive shake of his head. “I’m not-“ he starts, but then, Grantaire tils their foreheads together instead. Now that he’s started, he can’t seem to tear his gaze away from Enjolras, awestruck and a little bit like he’s drowning. “I don’t want-“ Enjolras starts again, and this time, Grantaire is the one who shakes his head.

“I’m going to paint you,” he promises, voice hoarse. “A canvas won’t do you justice, but I’m going to try. I’m going to paint you until my fingers bleed, and then I’m going to paint you some more.”

“I hadn’t thought you a romantic,” Enjolras admits. When Grantaire smiles, something flutters in his chest.

“I’m anything you want, anything at all. Just say the word. Say all the words, I want to hear them. You can- anything. On one condition.”

“What is it?” On a wholly uncharacteristic whim, his lips quirking - and curving up even more when Grantaire widens his eyes at the sight of it -, Enjolras adds, “Anything.”

“Stay,” Grantaire says. “Please.”

It's not what Enjolras expected, and there isn’t much sense to the request. And yet, or maybe because of it, the promise comes easy to him. “I’ll stay.”

Somewhere in Grantaire's apartment there is an empty canvas, waiting for a brush.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear from you in the comments or on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/vamillepudding) !


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